


Mo Luaidh

by CricketJames



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie & Claire missing scene set post-print shop in Voyager. Written to fill a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mo Luaidh

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like AO3 has been bombarded by these two prompts the past few days, but I might as well add mine to the mix. What can I say? I'm a perfectionist/completionist and I don't like having something posted on Tumblr that isn't posted here. This prompt was my first foray into the Outlander world. Prior to this all of my writing in this fandom has been RPF based (which I think counts against me in some weird way but whatever), so be kind :) Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Prompt: Hi can you please have one around Voyager where Claire catches Jamie talking to a picture of Brianna, telling stories, wisdom, etc or just anything to do with the pictures and Jamie learning about Bree, I feel like it’s underutilized in the book.

* * *

The soft pressure of his palm on my thigh dragged me muzzily back to the realm of consciousness. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour – two, tops – and it was first instinct to push his hand away and grumble my way back to sleep. Before I could move to brush him away, the difference in the weight and size of the hand on my thigh registered.

Jamie.

Not the middle of the night advances I’d become accustomed to rebuffing, but Jamie. The ache in my thighs and the stinging marks on my clavicle and neck were Jamie, not him.

I smiled into the pillow and burrowed in a little deeper. He had been talking, I noted, and paused when I moved. He was silent, and I could almost feel him looking at me. I froze, eyes closed, trying to keep my breathing deep and even to let him think I was still asleep.

After a moment he squeezed my thigh softly and continued his quiet rumblings. I caught a word here and there, his speech a mixture of English and Gaelic – something he only did when he was emotional in one way or another.

His voice continued, rumbly and deep, lulling me back toward dreamland.

“You’re the spit o’ me, bless ye. I wouldn’t have wished that on any lass - but a Dhia mo maise, I would change nothing about you. Are ye like yer mam? Sharp tongued as the devil himself but willing to carry the weight of the world on your back lest others suffer? Or maybe you’re like your Auntie Janet – Jenny, your mam may have told ye about her…no matter who ye are like, mo luaidh, yer perfect and let nay person tell ye otherwise. I’m none so good with the fatherly wisdom or advice, and I’m not daft – I ken ye can’t actually hear me, but it eases my mind to say it aloud. My Da once told me once, the most important thing for ye to do in life is love your wife – well, in your case your man – openly. Dinna hide it from him. Show him your love as often as you can in the way that is right for ye, words, actions, or both. The bairns you may one day be blessed to have will see that, and be loving, generous people in return. I dinna ken that I did that with yer mam, but a Dhia if she didna ken before she will now, I promise ye that.”

“Tha mi duilich, mo nighean ruaidh. Tha mi duilich airson gabhail dhi bhuaibh . Bidh mi a dhìon aice agus gràdh dhi airson an dithis againn , tha mi ‘gealltainn.” he whispered, voice breaking and his hand tightening on my thigh again, “I’m sorry for taking her from you.” Almost without conscious thought I covered his hand with mine and turned to face him.

He was sitting on the side of the bed, one long leg tucked underneath him and three of the pictures of Bree spread on this thigh.

“I dinna mean to wake ye,” he said softly, dovetailing his fingers with mine on top of the blanket. I pressed a kiss to the point of his shoulder and rested my cheek against the spot.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” I replied, giving his hand a squeeze. “You seemed to be having a moment.”

“Ach,” he retorted, waving his free hand in dismissal, “I was just…nah, it’ll sound daft.”

“It wont,” I promised, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“I was just…talking to the lass. I ken she can’t really hear me but…”

Tears welled at the corners of my eyes and threatened to spill down my cheeks. I sniffed, hard, and managed to keep them at bay.

“She can,” I whispered. “What were you telling her?”

“This and that…” he went quiet, one blunt finger tracing the soft curve of two-year-old Bree’s cheek before moving to run down the length of eighteen-year-old Bree’s arm, “I have so many things I want to tell her, so many things I want to know…”

They were quiet, both staring into the face of a child one would never meet and one would never see again.

“I wrote it all down,” I started, he turned to look carefully at my face as my glance flitted from photo to photo on his thigh before staring at our linked hands. “in a journal. I wrote in it every day, even when there was nothing to report other than the funny way she said ‘garbage’.”

“And how did she say it?” He asked, rubbing a thumb along the back of my hand.

“Jarebage. She knew she said it wrong, and she hated it and fixed it almost every time she said it wrong, but it felt important. It felt like something you should know, so I wrote it down.”

I drew my legs underneath me and reached for the pile of photos sitting on the mattress with my free hand, settling them on my crossed legs.

“That rabbit,” I said, pointing at the photo from her first birthday, “Timothy. I have no idea where she heard the name Timothy or how she got it in her head to call him Timothy, but Timothy he was. Never Tim or Timmy, always Timothy.”

He smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

“I almost brought it.”

He peered at me, confused.

“The journal, I almost brought it. But I wasn’t sure if the pictures would make it through, let alone the journal. I thought it was important to leave it for her. She needed something to remind her that I – we – loved – no, do love – her. I couldn’t risk it disappearing forever along with me,” a sob caught in my throat and I all but physically shoved it down.

“You were right, mo nighean donn. I’ve already taken you from her, I canna – willna – take her memories.”

The tears that had been threatening below the surface finally spilled their way down my cheeks, dripping onto our clasped hands.

“Will ye tell me more about her?” he asked, wiping the stray tears from where they had pooled on my cheekbones.

I looked up at him, his blue eyes blazing into my own, “Of course.”

“But not just now. Sleep, mo nighean donn. I have ye during the waking hours, let her have you in sleep.” 

* * *

**Gaelic Translations:**

_Mo maise_ – my beauty  
_Mo luaidh_ – my beloved/darling  
_Tha mi duilich, mo nighean ruaidh. Tha mi duilich airson gabhail dhi bhuaibh . Bidh mi a dhìon aice agus gràdh dhi airson an dithis againn , tha mi 'gealltainn._ \- Roughly: I’m sorry, my red one. I’m sorry for taking her from you. I will protect her and love her for both of us, I promise.

 


End file.
